


Unnatural

by Amymel86



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Canon Setting, Castle Black, F/M, Fluff, Jon centric, Pining, Post Resurrection, jon is mute after coming back from death, jonsa holiday fic exchange
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-21
Updated: 2019-12-21
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:36:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21884620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amymel86/pseuds/Amymel86
Summary: Once he is close enough, she leaps at him, arms wrapping him up and his nose buried in her copper hair. The shuddering exhale he expels is the most amount of sound he’s made in days but all he can hear is Sansa’s sniffling and the way their two hearts talk to one another in beats of the same song.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Comments: 23
Kudos: 236
Collections: Jonsa Holidays 2019





	Unnatural

**Author's Note:**

  * For [alltheprettylittlewolves](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alltheprettylittlewolves/gifts).



> for alltheprettylittlewolves! I hope you enjoy it :)

The Stranger had taken him for a while. And when he was delivered back; back among those who had stolen his last breath, the God had deemed the exchange a fair one if only he retained something of Jon’s.

Of all the things that Jon could lose of himself, he may have lamented his strength, his sight, his ability to reach and understand others around him. He would never think to cherish his voice.

Days go by and he cannot answer them – his brothers – when they ask what he saw in the dark of death. He saw nothing but a torch light – a flickering flame that scared him and called to him all the same. He’d wanted to reach out and touch it but had been afraid of what might come after he did. Besides, how do you even begin to tell someone that? Edd had pushed a quill and parchment his way but Jon had no words for him.

They were saying that death had left him touched in the head. He hears them. Hears how his brothers talk. They’re afraid of him though. They’re scared of the silence and the sheer lacking in his eyes. They’re scared of what he’s become. Jon would feel afraid too – if he could feel anything at all.

When he sees _her_ though...

When he sees her he _cannot breathe_. And the words – _all the words_ – they flood his skull, coating his tongue but never once leaving it. They taste sweeter than anything. Winterfell... Stark... home... sister... Sansa... Sansa, Sansa, _Sansa_.

Snowflakes fall as silently as his parted lips. His feet move quite on their own, drawn to her. And still his mind reels with words. Names. Father, Robb, Arya, Bran and Rickon... even.... even Lady Catelyn. But the one that keeps tumbling and falling and dancing and twirling is Sansa. _Sansa_. He wants to say it. It’s the first thing he’s wanted to say since he gulped air back into his lungs and his pierced heart knitted over its wound and began beating again. His mouth makes the shape of the sound. He can hear it in his head. _S-A-N-S-A_.

Once he is close enough, she leaps at him, arms wrapping him up and his nose buried in her copper hair. The shuddering exhale he expels is the most amount of sound he’s made in days but all he can hear is Sansa’s sniffling and the way their two hearts talk to one another in beats of the same song.

***

Jon finally takes up the ink and parchment Edd had given him when he’d awoke from his dark sleep. The fire crackles in the hearth and Sansa smiles at him over her cup of mutton soup.

Ser Davos had told his sister that he is much changed and that she should not expect conversation from him. Jon had glared at the man, feeling himself prickle at being spoken about when he was standing a mere two steps away. As if he were a child or a simpleton.

Is he a simpleton now?

He cannot talk. He cannot form words. The sounds of his thoughts refuse to leave his tongue and instead stay gathered at the base of his throat, threatening to choke him.

Even Hodor could Hodor. Even Mormont’s raven could call for corn! Corn! Corn!

He thinks of her name. Pushes his tongue to the roof of his mouth. The sound should be easy – musical. Sansa. S-s-s-sansa.

He can’t do it.

So he scratches the words down in ink instead, pleased that he is of sound enough mind for this at least. He asks her of her time since he last saw her.

Sansa has enough words for the both of them. And all of them hurt his heart.

He watches her as she recounts her horrors, reaching over to take her hand in his. When she decides to steer towards happier memories – memories of home, Jon is struck with how she has grown. How the fireglow dances in her hair and twinkles in her eyes. How this is the first time he’s felt warmth in such a long time.

Something lodged itself in his chest like a dagger or an arrow – something that his mind told him didn’t belong there. He removed his hand from hers, his skin suddenly feeling ablaze.

“And what of you?” Sansa asks, dipping her head to take another sip of soup. “Tell me what has happened since you left home.”

Jon gets to work writing his sorrowful tale, grateful for the excuse to be looking anywhere but at his sister.

_At his beautiful sister_.

He can feel her eyes on him while his quill acts as his slow voice. Waiting to hear all he has to say.

Why is it then that he suddenly wants to tell her nothing at all?

***

Some of these Lords overstep their place. He and Sansa are travelling the north to garner support against the Boltons. Seven hells, she’s only just escaped one marriage bed and they try to propose another for her? His lip curls in disgust when they try for the over-familiar themselves or thrust their unmarried sons her way.

Sansa of course will smile politely and never outright refuse them. They seek support after all.

But Jon... there are whispers about Jon. How he keeps an eerie silent guard over his half sister. How one of his reprimanding glares will cut a man as soon as his sword would. How over-protective he’s become. How unnatural he is.

Perhaps he is unnatural? He feels it.

When he catches their men leering at her and murmuring their words about what they would do if they had the chance.... what they would do... what they would do... what _he_ would do... something in him cracks. He cannot boom over them. He cannot vocally reprimand them for their disgusting base thoughts – no more than he can stop his own mind conjuring his own thoughts that mirror them.

So he has earned a reputation for violence.

Not with her.

Never with her.

She will shake her head at him as she tenderly washes his bloodied knuckles and wraps a clean bandage around his hand.

“You should ignore them, Jon,” she tells him softly.

Jon only stares at her as she works. There’s a million words he’d like to say, if only he could start with one – _‘Sansa’_. It feels heavy where it should feel light and joyful. Heavy in his mouth and heavy in his heart. He wants to tell her things. He wants to utter words that should never be spoken between them. Not brother and sister. Those words should never be said. Never. But those are the words that taste sweetest in his mouth – just as sure as they taste bitter too.

_Gods_ , he wants to love her. Wants to push her back into the sheets of her little camp bed and whisper those filthy words he catches their lust-driven men chuckle to one another. He even finds he envies them that.

But instead he’s left with ink and parchment and fingers that can never scratch the letters fast enough – can never keep up with his thoughts.

She reads them all though. Everything he has to say. Seeks out his words on his blasted paper when she could so easily ignore him; use him for what he has become and nothing else – an overprotective brute. A guard.

She used to dream of valiant knights once, he remembers. Would that he could be one of those knights for her now – vanquishing her enemies and singing sweet words afterwards.

He lays in his bunk – in the tent next to hers, staring up at the rough canvas thinking of all the words he might say if he could, if he was allowed, if he had his voice.

It would all start with one.

The tip of his tongue forms behind his teeth and he breathes from his nose, thinking the sound.

“S-“

“S-s-s-s-“

There’s a rustle at his tent entrance and Jon sits swiftly, ready to reach for his sword should he need to. Sansa stands there, cloak pulled tight, hair unbound from her usual braid.

“I...” her sky blue eyes dart away, slitting over his little writing table and stool and then coming back to rest on him again, “the dreams are plaguing me again. May I sleep with you?”

Jon nods his head, scooting over to allow more room in the single camp bunk for her. She folds her cloak neatly, setting it on his stool before lifting the furs and sliding close beside him.

Jon swallows. He hates that she is chased by terrors but his heart sings for the times he can comfort her.

Her arm wraps around his middle and her head lays upon his chest. He wishes he could tell her it will be alright. He wishes he could tell her anything. Instead, he lazily combs his fingers through her flame-licked hair. He hates how much he loves this.

When her head is heavy and her breaths are deep, Jon’s hand still sweeps her locks from root to ends as he continues to stare up at that canvas overhead.

His mind is full of things that should not be there.

How would she react if she knew? If he told her – if he wrote his filthy confession down for her to see? Would she recoil? Would she?

Licking his lips, he concentrates on the name sitting heavily on his tongue again.

“S-s-s-“ he whispers. “S-s-a-“

He’s breathing hard. This is the furthest he’s ever gotten, the hardest he’s ever tried. But Sansa’s right there in the crook of his arm, her head having nuzzled higher, closer, her face pressed into the side of his neck. He can feel his dry throat bob as he swallows.

“S-s-s-... S-s-a-a-... n-n-n-n-...”

_Fuck. Come on._

“S-s-a-nnn-s-s-s-“

Movement. Sansa’s breathing has changed. She slowly raises her head and Jon’s heart is trying to beat right out of his chest as she stares, wide-eyed down at him.

He tries again, nervously licking at his chapped lips. “S-s-aans... S-sans-a...”

Her face – _fuck_ – her Gods-damned beautiful face splits into the best smile he’s ever seen. And before he’s barely had time to grin back at her like the stupid fool everyone thinks he is, she’s swooped down, her lips pressed to his own, smothering his grin with a kiss. Jon’s hungry groan rumbles in his chest, his hand coming up to cup her jaw and hold her there so she can continue to smother, smother, smother until there was no more breath left in his lungs.

Sansa pulls away minutely to whisper. “Say it again.” Does she hear it? Hear his full confession in her name alone?

“Sssansa,” he says before their lips peck, peck, peck “Ssansa.”

“Again,” she begs on a sigh, tugging him, pulling him, shifting them both so that he’s rolling on top of her soft curves, pushing her into the mattress of his little single camp bunk.

“ _Sansa_ ,” he rasps as he’s tasting her lips, her jaw, her neck.

“ _Jon_.”

Maybe more words will come later. Maybe they won’t. Maybe his voice will be stuck like Hodor’s. It hardly matters right now. Right now all there is is Sansa on his tongue.

“Jon, Jon,” Sansa sighes, her fingers a tangle in his hair, “ _love me.”_

_“Yes,”_ he whispers, as easy as breathing.


End file.
